Step By Step To New Beginnings
by BlueEyes444
Summary: Brotherhood: Noun. The state or relationship of being brothers. Pre-series. Christmas Eve. One brother badly injured, the other harboring heavy guilt, and a long year and a half of pain built up between them. Can this Christmas bring a miracle?


**Disclaimer: **I don't own the poem… or Supernatural. Drat. I wanted Jensen. :pouts: And Santa didn't give me him or the rights.

**Summary: **Brotherhood: Noun. The state or relationship of being brothers. Pre-series. Christmas Eve. One brother badly injured, the other harboring heavy guilt, and a long year and a half of pain built up between them. Can this Christmas bring a miracle?

**A/N:** Always thanks to my fellow writers and support and encouragement team Miles333 and Sparkiebunny. :)

Marry late Christmas and happy New Year! :D

C's New Year's tradition inspired the last. : D I'm sure you know what it is. ;)Much whump and angst for our boys, and tons of bromance.

**Spoilers**: _No Rest For The Wicked_

Don't think I need to say this but no Wincest.

* * *

_If I climb the stairwell. Step. By. Step._

_Will you still push me to my grave?_

_You took my hand to pull me up_

_But still you let me fall._

_If I rev as hard as I can go_

_And ride without my helmet on_

_And fall and split my head on the bitter pavement_

_Will I still go to hell?_

_Because I walk through the night_

_But I'm never alone_

_Cause I walk and I ride and I run_

_But the devil wouldn't let me die alone_

_Will I go to hell because I tried to find you?_

_Will I go to hell because I rode the highway too damn hard?_

_Heaven only knows._

_Heaven only knows, but hell- it got the memo_

_Because I walk through the night_

_But I'm never alone_

_Cause I walk and I ride and I run_

_But the devil wouldn't let me die alone_

There's blood all over the seat.

Dean's blood.

It covers his clothes as well. There's so much of it. It's disturbing and strange, but the blood is familiar and comforting.

His hands are slick with warm crimson, coloring the door as they fumble with the task of opening it.

He groans and fights the wave of dizziness that falls over him. It takes every ounce of strength to force the door to open. He takes a stumbling step out and grabs a hold of the door to keep from falling.

His hand leaves a bloody smear.

Dean can see his breath, even in the dark, and he shivers. He didn't think California could get this cold.

Snow is falling from the night sky, and for one crazy second, he remembers the last time he saw Sam, not from a far, and he feels such sadness that if asked about it, he would deny all knowledge of it.

Because he's a Winchester and they're always good with the denial thing.

The hunter lets go of the door, barely catching himself before he falls, and uses a lot more strength than he has to close the door.

A hundred and twenty-one steps until he reaches Sammy. Dean counted them on one of his midnight check-ups in case, God forbid something were to happen to his brother here.

Dean focuses on placing one foot in front of the other, because if he doesn't, he'll fall. He pretends that each footprint he leaves isn't stained with blood, and just focuses on getting to Sam.

Sammy. That thought brings him some comfort, keeps his mind away from the fact that he's even more lightheaded than before, and that he can't feel his hands.

One hundred and sixteen more to go.

He can make it. It's only a little under twenty out and it's not even that cold out. Besides, he's been in worse positions than he is now. He'll be fine.

He stumbles again and he barely catches himself.

One hundred and ten.

Okay, he lied. It's pretty bad and the fact that he's sure the snow is coming down harder doesn't help things either.

One hundred and four.

Dean shivers and stumbles again, and he realizes that he's doing something that Sam might do, counting steps to his brother, and he laughs at how ironic that is.

He groans, almost losing his footing again, and notices for the first time that the snow is up about three inches above his ankles. Dean swears under his breath, just because he needs to hear something and is losing his focus. Also, the situation calls for swearing. Then he has to force his feet to move again.

One hundred more steps to go.

He's pretty sure he can see lights now through the heavy snow and blanket of darkness, and that reassures him somewhat. Even though the cold is seeping into his clothes and he can't feel his feet or most of his body anymore.

Dean sees the outline of a brush and realizes he must have miscounted somewhere along the lines, which isn't surprising considering how much blood he's losing and the surrounding darkness, because the bush marks the ninety-first step.

He sways, almost loses his balance again, but catches himself. He's pretty sure that the next time, he'll be down and won't be able to get back up.

Sam. Need to focus on Sam, he tells himself. Because if he doesn't think of him, he'll probably won't make it those eighty-seven steps.

Would Sam actually be there? It's disturbing that the twenty-three -year-old doesn't actually know where his brother is, even if he spends every chance he gets here, watching his brother and making sure he is okay.

Eighty-four.

Man, he's not making much progress. But in this case, any steps are better than none.

Suddenly, the world turns and he's down on his knees; his palms making crimson imprints upon the snow.

"'ammy," Dean moans before he's lost to the world of internal darkness.

xxx

Sam wakes up with a start, shirt covered in sweat, mind trying to grip onto a nightmare that is just out of reach. His chest heaving, he glances out of habit around his darkened room, noting that things are the way he left them earlier, and feels a slight feeling of relief.

His breathing becoming normal again, Sam turns the lamp on beside his bed, looks at the clock that reads 2:10, _Christmas Eve_, and kicks off the covers, rubbing his hands across his face tiredly, a slight headache pounding at his temples. Same nightmare he's been having for the last two weeks, he's sure.

And he knows that it would useless to try and sleep now, because it would just come back and he's not sure how long his frayed nerves can stay together if he's forced to relive the nightmare once again.

Dean. So much blood. Fighting. Hellhounds. Dean dead.

No, no, _no_.

Sam muffles a sudden sob and clenches his eyes shut in an effort to keep away the images of the nightmare and the tears that threaten to make their way down.

He can't do this. Can't keep dreaming of his brother's death, night after night, powerless to change anything as his brother _dies_. Something has to give. And it needs to happen now.

In seconds, Sam's up and pulling on a pair of boots over his feet, his hands shaking. He grabs a coat from the hardwood floor and he can honestly say he's not sure how he manages to make it outside, but he does.

Snow's coming down pretty hard. The cool air nips at his bare fingers and face. But it helps clear his jumbled mind, pushes away the headache a bit. After a few seconds in the brisk air, he doesn't feel as if he could fall apart at any given time.

Dean.

His brother is never far from his thoughts.

He has half a mind to call him, just to check in, but he hadn't spoken to either of them in a while and what was the last thing he said to John Winchester? Something like he wasn't going to talk to him again.

He'd been hurt and angry, and he's kept that promise. Mostly. He's keeps tabs on both them, thanks to hunter Tish Black, and he had been by the side of their beds for every hospital trip of theirs. Only Tish knew of his visits.

Sam starts walking, shivering slightly, but not about to head inside yet. He needs to figure out some things, and right now, this seems to be the best way to do it.

He frowns, stops, and glances up at the sky; stars are scattered across the dark blanket and it's sort of silly but they seem to be mocking him, with their beauty and light and calmness.

Something isn't quite right…besides him thinking that _stars_ are actually mocking him.

He's positive of it; the air just feels wrong. He just isn't sure what, though.

_I'm probably overreacting_. Sam tells himself. _But it can't hurt to ask Tish to check in on them._

He starts walking again, turning around the last time he saw his brother, really _saw_ him, in his head. Has it only been a year since he walked out on Dean and their father? It feels like much, much longer than that.

The next thing he knows, his feet connect with his brother's unconscious body.

xxx

Sam doesn't know how he manages to get his brother inside but he does. He moves on autopilot, keeping his mind on the task before him, because he's pretty sure if he doesn't, he won't be able to resist the temptation of falling apart.

He strips Dean of any and all wet clothes, except for his boxers. In seconds, he has two heatpads from under his bed plugged into the outlet beside his bed, and has them resting on the parts of his brother's body that isn't bleeding. Sam's hands are shaking, but he tries to figure out the worst of the injuries.

There's a pretty bad gash on his leg and his stomach looks even worse. Cuts and bruises line his chest and face. He searches for frostbite, hands, feet, face, and finds none, which is a relief. Someone's looking out for him.

Sam swallows down the guilt and concern and forces his mind back to taking care of his brother.

The stitches he makes are careful and neat, something that comes from years of practice. His hands are still shaking, maybe even worse than before, and he pauses every five minutes to check his brother's pulse. It's steady but weak, and that's all Sam can ask for right now.

He keeps his mind blank; the why, what, when, and how can't be answered now. The fear and worry for his brother is the only thing that is keeping him going.

The stitching somehow finished, along with the bandaging, he searches his brother for other wounds, and finds only more bruises and more scratches and cuts and he says thanks to God that there isn't anything else.

He can't stop the tears from rolling down his face as he looks at his so-still brother, and the dried blood that stains his skin. No Hellhounds this time, and so much blood.

xxx

Dean wakes up to pain.

Dulled pain, but it's there.

He blinks open his eyes and finds himself looking at a blurred but hot blonde woman. He frowns.

Then she becomes clearer and he realizes that he's staring at a photo. And that Sammy is with her.

What?

Dean blinks. Yep. Sammy with hot blonde babe.

That's weird.

The picture is in a golden frame and Sam's smiling and holding her and she's laughing and they both look careless and free.

He frowns and moves his gaze away from it. He doesn't need this and nothing is adding up. He can't be at Sam's. But, he is.

He shifts his position and lets out a moan as pain shots through his stomach.

Gritting his teeth, he rides the pain out. It takes a terribly long moment to get his breath back.

What has happened and where in the world is he?

His mind is foggy, and his eyesight's still blurry. The way his body feels, sluggish and odd, he guesses he's pretty drugged up on something.

Dean glances around the room, careful not to move too much. He's starting to _really_ feel a few of the bruises and cuts and wounds he's sure his body is covered with.

He's lying on a bed, with heatpads covering different parts of his body, tucked into a next of blankets and he's leaning against pillows by the dozen and he knows only one person who would do this.

Sammy.

He notes the unfamiliar and shadowed walls, the TV, the couch, the two beds, the kitchenette, the door where he assumes the bathroom was, and the exits and entrances.

He can honestly say he isn't sure why he's here; he can't exactly remember anything after Nevada.

Suddenly, a wave of darkness threatens his vision, and he's left struggling to remain awake.

It must be those drugs kicking in.

That was the last thing he registers before darkness claims him once again.

xxx

Sam's hands are scrubbed raw, to the point of bleeding, from trying to get the blood, his _brother's_ blood, off. Bandages cover them; blood soaking through the thin covering.

The nightmare of his brother's death has merged with reality and he can't tell what's what anymore, _Dean's blood on his hands_, and he's spent the last seven minutes throwing up everything he's eaten in the last twenty-four hours.

Taking a deep breath, trying to keep the bile down, Sam leans his head against the side of the counter, which is cool to his cheek. His head's spinning.

Dean. He needs to check on Dean, make sure he's okay. He can wait. Dean's worse than he is.

He pushes himself up, barely catching himself on the counter as the dizziness worsens. He hopes that he can make it to his brother's side without throwing up again. Dean…blood...

Sam closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, fighting the way the world still spins beneath his lids. A nightmare and nothing more.

Dean's in trouble.

This. Is. Reality.

His brother needs him.

xxx

"_We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year!"_

"…wake up soon."

Dean wakes up again, this time to Christmas music and the sound of a soft voice talking, and feels more then a little disorientated.

Christmas music?

He blinks open hazel eyes and finds himself lying on his side, facing a darkened wall; it must be late or really early.

The Christmas music starts up again, this time "Jingle Bells", and he realizes he's listening to an old record that for some reason, some woman gave their father after a hunt around Christmas time a few years back.

Strange.

That's when he realizes that it's Sam he hears talking. That Sam is currently rubbing circles with a couple fingers on his neck.

"…I wish I had been there…and, I'm _so, so_ sorry," Sam continues, voice faint and full of emotion. Dean lays there, savoring the warm touch and trying to figure out what's going on. The last thing he can recall is the fall down the stairs, out that second story window, then waking up here.

Nothing made sense. Why is Sam with him? Apologizing? Not that he isn't thrilled his little brother is with him, but this isn't right. What is going on?

He's confused and bit afraid, and while he's trying to sort things out, Sam resumes talking.

"I should have been there with you." Those seven little words and everything that remains unspoken but Dean still hears, say a lot.

"'ammy?" His voice slurs and his head starts aching so badly, he can't move. But he finds his hand in the blankets and screw the pain that shots through his head and stomach, but he manages to pull his hand out and reach blindly for Sam.

His hand connects with an arm and he gives it a squeeze drawing a choked-out sob from his brother. "'M fine, 'ammy." _It's not your fault._

It takes several long moments, and oh how he's missed his brother, before an emotional reply answers him. "Dean…you're awake…"

Darkness is once again pulling him back, and Dean knows he won't be able to resist. Giving his brother's arm one last squeeze, he drifts off once again.

xxx

Sam brushes his hand along his brother's forehead, glad that there's no sign of a fever. After a couple days of rest, because his brother won't let himself have more than that, he'll be up.

Shifting his position, Sam glances over Dean and at the clock. 5:30 it reads and he yawns, gripping his brother's hand. Christmas Eve. He had actually forgotten about it until a few minutes ago.

He looks down at his bandaged hands and shudders. Dean. He was so close to losing his brother and it wouldn't have been just a nightmare.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he focuses on the touch of his brother. He's here.

Dean's here.

And that's the best Christmas present he can ever ask for.

xxx

He wakes to the smell of chocolate chip cookies.

Dean opens his eyes and blinks in confusion. Cookies?

He's lying on his other side now, and he notices the room is lit in a soft glow, from candles that are currently out of his vision.

"Hey." His brother walks in front of his vision and crouches down the bed. In one hand, he's holding a mug, and the other he's holding two pills.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean croaks, and as his head begins to clear from the point of being cloudy, he gets a better view of his brother.

His hair's longer, and his eyes are haunted and so sad. Dean swallows hard and tries to fight the raging emotions, guilt being the strongest. What happened to his little brother? Did _he_ do this?

Lips twitching into a weak smile, he says, "Dude, you need to c-cut your hair. You look like a Sasquatch." _You're grown up a lot, little brother. You've changed. _

Sam chuckles, and even if it isn't forced, Dean sees it doesn't reach his eyes. "No, I don't." _You have, too_.

Dean snorts. "You're in denial."

Sam just gives him a look, and it's so much like old times and it's so much like Sammy, it hurts. A lump forms in his throat and he swallows several times as he averts his eyes.

Sam seems to sense the reason behind it because suddenly, he speaks. "Here. I have some more pain pills."

Dean swallows, pushes his emotions away, and gives a weak smile as he looks up. "You must have read my mind." Sam places the mug down on the floor and moves to help Dean into a sitting position, but Dean shakes his head.

He's never one to use help unless he has too. It takes several moments and lots of pain shooting through his stomach and as many "_no_, Sammys" to Sam before he's sitting up. And he would never admit it out loud, but it exhausts him a lot more than it should.

Sam silently hands him pills and the mug, without a doubt cursing his brother for his stubbornness. His hand and arm almost not doing it, Dean pops the pills into his mouth and takes a sip from the mug.

And almost gags.

"Sam. What. Is. It?"

Sam laughs and his eyes brighten and Dean feels like a weight has been taken off his shoulders. "Eggnog."

Dean grumbles something and pushes the mug back to Sam, which draws a chuckle.

He grins and settles back into the pillows again. He closes his eyes, waiting for his brother to join him.

It takes a minute, but Sam soon joins him, lanky frame taking up most of the bed. Since Dean's not feeling up to a good verbal brawl with his brother, he lets it slide.

His brother's hand connects with his own, and tightens around it. Reassuring himself that Dean's there.

"So, where's Dad?" It's Sammy who makes the first move. Dean bides his time as he unconsciously grips his brother's hand tighter. He knew this was going to come up eventually.

"Bobby called and needed some help in New York." He pauses. "I was in Navada. It was supposed to a simple salt-and-burn and the bones were buried in one of the man's second story rooms…" He shifts. "Then the next thing I knew, I was pushed down the stairs." He pauses again, dreading the next words. "And out a window."

Sam's silent and Dean's for once afraid to know what's going on in his brother's head.

"Next time, when you're alone, call me," Sam says after a minute. To Dean's surprise, his voice sounds hallow.

Dean turns over and faces his little brother, pretending the pain that stabs at his body isn't there.

Sam's staring up at the ceiling and his expression is carefully masked.

"Sammy?"

It seems like that's the sword to his brother's armor.

In seconds, Sam breaks down and is sobbing hard into Dean's shoulder.

And all he can do is murmur words of comfort that don't work and hold his brother.

He doesn't know how long it is but he holds Sam until his brother pulls back.

Silence and this time, it's Dean's turn to make the move. "You want to tell me what that was about?" Tact was never his thing when it concerns Sam.

Sam takes a shuddering a breath then lets it out slowly. "N-nothing."

"Cut the bull, Sammy," Dean barks, concern clear in his voice. He knows everything about that kid, especially when he's _lying_.

"Dreams," Sam admits tiredly after a moment, keeping his gaze formerly on the ceiling. "Dreams of you dying."

Oh.

That explained it.

Dean wraps his arms around Sam, his brother shuddering. "Hey. Hey. I'm not going to die anytime soon. So don't worry."

Sam stays silent and he knows he hasn't gotten through to him. "Sam. I'm. Not. Going. To. Die. Not anytime soon. So don't worry about it." He pauses. "I promise."

Sam lets out his breath and he feels his brother relax.

"Now, because I'm not really good with these chick-flick moments and she's hot, who's the girl in the picture?"

"Go to sleep, Dean."

Dean smiles and tightens his hold around Sam.

Sam sleeps without nightmares.

xxx

The next morning, they're sitting together on the couch, Dean actually lying across it while Sam's sitting, eating cookies and drinking eggnog, which Dean has decided wasn't actually _that_ bad. They are watching some crime show called _NCIS_.

It really wasn't his thing, but Ziva was pretty hot and Abby really wasn't too bad on the eyes either and it was _Sam_ too, so Dean was only so glad to suffer through it.

Which reminded him…

Wincing as his stomach protests, he leans over and grabs his jacket from the floor, a cookie stuffed halfway into his mouth. He had told Sam not to wash it until he could get something out of it and he takes a sec to smile lovingly at it. Not noticing the weird look that Sam shoots him, he finds what he's looking for.

It's a small blue velvet box and a silver bow is on top of it.

It's a golden locket of their mother's, one of the very few things that survived the fire.

Letting the coat fall back to the ground, Dean nudges Sam with his foot, since his brother's attention back on the TV, and waits for him to look.

"Here. For you, little brother." He hands it down to Sam, who's staring at him with confusion.

Dean lies back down and watches his brother stare at it for a moment.

Suddenly, his face breaks up with a smile, and he takes the bow from the box and leans down to place it on Dean's chest. "You're my present, Dean."

And with those four words, Dean knows that even if it takes a few weeks, months, _years_, they'll get back what they've lost and even now, they're on the road to recovery.

They're back to being brothers again.

**

* * *

**

Thanks for reading it and I hope you enjoyed it. Have a happy New Year! :)

**And thanks goes again to Miles and C. for the suggestions on the title. I loved both so I combined them. :)**


End file.
